


Happily Blinded

by blcwriter



Series: Eyes are Still Brightest 'Verse [3]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Family, Kids, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Schmoop, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Happily Blinded

Someone at Team Jones wanted ring porn for another Daily Captain Post. Someone else wanted hand/nipple porn in that same post, because they're all GREEDY PORN GITS and I love them. And I wanted a continuation of [Eyes Still Are Brighter](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/47698.html#cutid1). This is all three.  Do I need an Anne Hathaway warning?  Maybe.  Okay.  I'll also warn for Karl's kids and SCHMOOP.

\--

Awareness comes slowly. Maybe it’s the light slanting in through the windows—or the slight breeze through the screen door, but in any event, there’s no rush. Don’t have to be anywhere, no alarm set, he can just take his time.

He opens his eyes and slowly takes stock. Legs tangled, Chris the one mostly half-sprawled on top this time. His cock’s hard, pressing into Karl’s hip, and there’s no way that’d be comfortable if the kid were in any way conscious, but clearly he’s not. He’s got one arm slung up onto Karl’s chest, his head in the join of Karl’s neck and his shoulder, and his breath is slow, wet, warm, heavy. His hand lies over Karl’s heart—even in sleep he’s possessive, the sweet little bastard, and a stupid smile grows on Karl’s face even as the nipple lying directly under Chris’ long middle finger pebbles a bit. The kid has talented hands. Among other things. Everything, really.

Chris’ other hand is not so much grabbing Karl’s hair as just making sure—“grabby hands,” Karl calls him, sometimes, the man is so tactile, not that Karl minds, never ever. He brings a hand of his own up and fingers some of Chris’ hair—he’s got it longer right now for a role, a look Karl prefers to the closer-shorn cut Chris keeps when he doesn’t have to “fuss with it” for a role. It’s Chris’ hair, he’d never tell him not to cut it, but he does like it long—Chris looks so old-Hollywood handsome with it a little bit long, not that he isn’t always just gorgeous, but it’s something different, that’s all. He’s still too asleep to make sense.

But he can focus on Chris’ hands—his long, slender fingers, elegant, even, though Chris laughs and turns red, says “knobbly” and looks away when Karl says so—at the way the pale skin contrasts with Karl’s darker olive, especially now that it’s summer in Auckland and they’ve come to stay for a bit, hang out with the kids while Nat’s off on a shoot. Chris just laughs and slathers on buckets of sunscreen as Karl and the kids get darker and darker, says “I’m your own photonegative, yeah,” and scowls at Karl when he gets too into his Dad role and asks Chris if maybe he shouldn’t go sit in the shade after an hour or so of playing with the kids in the waves.

His wrists and fingers are naked—the silver ring’s tarnished and the opal got cracked a year ago now during a fight—Karl had been being stupid, dumb, jealous, ready to leave over a co-star the studio’d asked Chris to appear with a few times, and Karl knew how these things went, but Karl had been all packed. Chris punched the wall in frustration, his “goddamnit, Karl, _you’re_ the one who doesn’t want people to know, I’d go on Oprah tomorrow and fucking jump on her couch, so leave if you want, but don’t make this _my fault,_ ” and then he’d looked at the cracked opal, bright eyes dull and welling, said “hunh, fitting, I guess,” and slammed the door in Karl’s face. Now the ring lives in a box of varied memorabilia along with that old ratty bracelet that finally broke—Hunter’s not so into jewelry anymore, it’s more origami these days, so they have all sorts of frogs and cranes decorating the house, and Chris has a folded blue heron taped to the front of the current (one of many) notebook(s) he keeps for script notes and the short stories he won’t let Karl read—though Karl sometimes peeks.

One day he’ll type them all up and send them to someone and Chris will find himself published whether he wants it or not. In the meantime, though, he runs his fingers over the back of Chris’ hand on his chest, tracing the small veins that stand out and the faint few small hairs that’ve turned white with the sun. Funny thing that—Chris’ skin won’t really tan, but his hair does go lighter, and his sparse body hair lights up like a halo in the sun if the angle just hits it right—another thing to be charmed by, he guesses.

He really does love Chris’ hands, though. Just last night, Indy’d banged his head doing something dumb, Karl doesn’t even know what, he’d missed that part with all the whining and wailing, and Chris was on it in a flash with the peroxide and bandaids and the completely over the top teasing and fussing that was the only way to get the kid to calm down, that and the patting and hugging, and _BAM,_ Indy’d shut up in about two minutes flat. It would’ve taken Karl ten. Yep. Chris’ hands are magic, and not just in bed.

Craning his head, he curls up enough to kiss the tip of the middle finger resting over his nipple, the one that wants some attention—though that’s not the point of this action—and then moves on to the next. He could just pull Chris’ hand up to his mouth and wake him up that way, but that too—that’s not the point. The point is to push up on his elbows enough to get kisses on each fingertip and then at the thumb without Chris’ head rolling away, which he manages somehow, but hey, he’s played enough superheroes and kings with kingly powers in enough movies now that maybe they’ve rubbed off somehow.

Chris’ hand spasms over his heart, a _murr-grumble_ into Karl’s ear as his hand in Karl’s hair gets a little more grabby and his mouth finds some skin to wet-mumble at, not awake enough for a kiss. Karl takes that as permission, and wraps his hand around Chris’ wrist, pulling his hand up so he can suck at Chris fingers’.

He starts small—most things start that way, a little flirtation, and look at them now, hell, _People_ called them one of Hollywood’s favorite couples—starts with the pinky, and Chris sucks a little harder on his neck in return, turning so he can hump Karl’s hip a bit harder. Works his way to the empty ring finger, does two at a time, then the middle finger as Chris gasps and chuckles a little and says “greedy,” as he takes his hand out of Karl’s hair and scrabbles a little, shifting his weight. He holds on to Chris’ wrist and works those three fingers like they’re Chris’ cock, and Chris’ grunt as he scrapes his teeth down and sucks hard is its own little reward.

“You’re such a slut, Karl,” Chris says, but he’s breathless, and when he shifts his weight back, his cock’s full and burning hot against the skin of Karl’s thigh. His eyes are heavy-lidded and navy with lust.

“Waking me up just because you want me, and maybe I needed my sleep.”

Karl’s only answer is to let go of the three fingers he’s sucking with a loud, obscene pop and start sucking at Chris’ neglected index finger and thumb, thrusting his tongue into the webbing and massaging the flesh as he holds the hand to his mouth, massages the forearm with his fingers.

There’s the cool drizzle of lube on Karl’s stomach, the swirl of Chris’ fingers through the small puddle—because, after all, he is working one-handed, and then there’s the teasing probe of one finger at the ring of Karl’s entrance. His own dick, already hard, twitches in anticipation at Chris’ fingers inside him, and he obliges, hitching one knee out of the way.

Chris circles, enters just once and retreats, then circles again, teasing until Karl’s pushing back before Chris pushes inside again, pushes past that first barrier muscle and starts crooking his finger, circling and opening and going so slowly that if Karl didn’t have his mouth full he’d yell at the bastard to stop taking his time—but Chris likes to tease and this is part of it, then. It seems like an eternity until there’s a second finger and then a third, a slow pulsing slide in and out, slow and around, stroking and crooking.  Karl worships Chris’ other hand with his mouth and Chris pants hard, his cock leaking as he only occasionally ruts into Karl’s leg to get some relief, until he shifts sides and slides his cock through the puddle of lube he’s left on Karl’s stomach, a pained “aaahhhh” coming out of his mouth as he pulls his fingers out of Karl’s ass and his mouth, palms his own cock with more lube and then Karl’s as he lines himself up and falls forward, falls in, grabs Karl’s hands and links sticky-wet fingers with his as they both gasp and join.

“Jesus _fuck_ but that’s good,” Karl manages after a moment, when Chris starts to move, when hands link and knees up and blankets and pillows scatter all over the place, the morning breeze wafts in and the sun chinks over them both and makes Chris’ sun-gilded hair look even more shiny, practically silver because it’s gotten so light.

“You’re a sweet-talker, that’s for sure,” Chris grunts, diving in at just the right angle to drive a grunt out of Karl, and he can hear the kids out in the hallway through the closed door, the older Hunter frantically telling Indy “No, don’t go in there, you can ask Chris to make you pancakes _tomorrow_ ,” in a stage whisper that could be heard back in L.A.

Chris laughs, but keeps up the pace—slow and perfect and Christ, Karl can just hear the T.V. in the kitchen, the kids can keep themselves amused for at least a half hour—and he detaches one hand to pull Chris down for a kiss, because he hasn’t yet had one and that—that is a crime, morning breath be damned to all hell.

They roll all around, and toward the end, Karl ends up on top, Chris jacking him with those damned talented hands and _oh fuck_ he’s decided Karl’s not coming quickly enough because he worms a finger up inside Karl alongside his marvelous cock and that’s it, he just hopes he babbles something that wasn’t too many curse words so the kids don’t repeat it at school as he watches Chris’ own face contort in pleasure. His impossible eyes brighten and widen as his talented hands, smeared only with Karl’s bodily fluids, fall limp to the bed and he gasps, “Oh, Karl, oh,” because he can manage not to swear with the kids in the house. Karl falters forward and lies on his back at Chris’ side because—he can’t think why quite right now—but he’s feeling like something’s a little bit off, though it’s none of Chris’ doing.

“Mmm. Love you. Love you,” Chris says, rolling over to plant a kiss on Karl’s forehead, before he sort of flops back to where he was lying.

Karl’s feeling a little bit speechless at the moment—but he does pull Chris into his arms and make sure he kisses him back very firmly.

\--

Of course, it’s Indy who drives the conundrum forward in a roundabout way. “Are you gonna go with Chris when he does his movie up in Vancouver?”

“Told you about that one, did he?” His youngest has taken to Chris in a big time way, beyond Chris’ willingness to indulge the occasional brattiness he sometimes gets into. Indy is far more bookish and Chris just gets that, and though Karl is by infection far more of a reader these days than ever he was, well, Chris will read with Indy for hours if that's what he wants.

His youngest son nods. “Said it had swords and fighting and stuff, kind of like Lord of the Rings except only smaller.”

“It’s the story of Tristan and Isuelt, kind of a sad story, did he tell you how it ends?” Personally, Karl smelt summer box-office gold, since it was romantic as hell and had all the action scenes to boot, but mostly he was glad Chris was still getting romantic lead offers. Guess Hollywood really had changed.

Indy nods. “He said they were going to do the sad ending, so it might tank and he might never get a movie again, but that was okay, because sometimes you have to take risks and do the thing that you think is worth it.”

Karl looks at his son, who has a solemn look on his face. “Chris said that, hunh?”

His son just looks back at him as if it’s a dumb question—like Chris would say anything else. “I like Chris. He’s cool. He doesn’t talk to me and Hunter like we’re stupid like some of Mom’s boyfriends do.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that—he likes you guys, too. Likes you a lot.”

Indy leans into his side. “So are you gonna go with him when he goes to Vancouver? He didn’t say so, but I think he would miss you.”

Hunh. He’d thought Indy was asking because he didn’t want Karl to go. He was planning on staying around unless he got an audition. His thing with Nat had always been that one of them had stayed with the kids while the other one did a movie—but then, hadn’t that been part and parcel of what led to the divorce, being apart all the time? And he and Chris—they were different, but. Still. Maybe.

“I was thinking of sticking around, I don’t have a film for another month.”

Indy frowns and stands up, glaring at Karl. “I think that’s stupid.” He storms off before Karl can defend himself, and it’s not quite worth chasing after. Explaining the complexities of adult relationships and personal space to kids are exhausting—hell, Karl’s thirty-seven and he’s still figuring all of it out.

He’s not surprised, a few minutes later, to come in from the deck with his now-cold coffee and paper to find Indy curled under Chris’ arm on the couch, his head hidden and burrowed. Chris’ one raised eyebrow—he learned that one from Karl—says “shh, let me handle this,”—but Indy’s half-angry, half-sobbed “I don’t want you to leave, but it’s like Daddy doesn’t even care!” stabs Karl right in the heart even as they’d already discussed it, the two of them privately.

“Your Dad wants to spend lots of time with you and your brother, he misses you guys when he’s off on a movie,” Chris says, all calm and reason, his fingers long and soothing on the back of Karl’s son’s tousled hair. “Your dad and I rack up lots of weekend frequent flier miles, believe me, so don’t you worry about it,” he continues, looking down at the hair that’s the same blond as Nat’s-- right now, the same sun-bleached as Chris', they could be related-- with a fond smile on his face. Suddenly Karl feels like he’s intruding on something private, even though it’s his own goddamned kid. “So, Indy,” he starts to say, and his voice is still calm, his voice still very soothing, as Karl walks out of the room, “I want you to listen…”

Karl has thinking to do.

\--

It’s raining and wet and that’s not a surprise, the weather report said it would be. He’d gotten the last four-wheel drive at the airport, and now he’s damned glad, because the shoot is a bit further out than he’d thought. His bags are in back, three weeks’ worth of things—all the rest he had shipped on to Spain, since why worry about stuff he wouldn’t need in the meantime. He consults the map on the passenger seat one last time as the GPS gives a squawk—he likes the belt and suspenders approach, because he just doesn’t trust the computer devices to not get you lost on some last-minute construction re-route. Paper maps at least show you where all the roads are without the frantic punching of buttons and some voice squawking “recalculating” at you as if you’d done something wrong.

A mile up, he comes to the site, parks the Land-Rover, and thanks heaven for Gore-tex as he heads up to the production trailer to announce his presence. He gets a smile and a pass from the main production PA and directions to where he’s got to go. On foot, since it’s rocky terrain and no golf-carts. They’re doing horse-work today, and the shoot’s almost done, so he pulls his hood up and follows the markers, then finds the cameras and stands back and out of the way.

He’s good—damned good—on the horse, and it’s one of those short scenes where it’s more conversation than horse chases, which are actually tricky, because you have to make the horses stay still while you talk to your co-star and kiss and do all of that stuff. Chris and Anne look great together—and Karl can hardly be jealous, it’s not like the two haven’t worked together before, but this is hardly a Disney movie that they’re doing here—and the scene is so fucking heartfelt as he realizes he’s watching them film their goodbye, because of course on the third day of shooting they’d practically shoot almost the end of the film, that’s just how it is—that Karl’s practically crying. He can’t wait to look at the dailies.

“Perfect. Cut,” finally calls the director, after the kiss is done and Chris is the one to pull away, swat Anne’s horse on the rump and send her off toward King Mark’s castle, and the two of them laugh, nervous as all post-cut kissers are, as Anne wheels her horse and comes back. Chris dismounts and then holds the head of Anne’s horse as she does the same. A groom comes along to take both as they both thank the man and Chris pulls off his leather gauntlets and tucks them into the wide leather belt of the costume he’s wearing, complete with chain mail and sword.

At least his fingers are naked.

His eyes light up as he and Anne approach the cameras and Karl steps forward, lowering his hood. Water from the trees splats on his head, but he and Anne are already wet, as the scene’s called for, so Karl might as well join them.

Anne smiles and pecks him hello on his cheek, but doesn’t bother sticking around. She—unlike Chris—knew he was coming, so she steps aside to talk to the shooting director, since they’re all done for the day.

“That was a hell of a goodbye,” Karl says in greeting, since Chris seems momentarily speechless. “I think they’re going to have to pass out tissues at the door as people go in.”

“Oh, stop it,” Chris says, flushing a little. Lowering his voice, he says “how long are you here?”

Well—that’s the question, right there.

He sticks his hands in his pockets for the two things he didn’t pack in his bags, back in the Rover. He comes up double-handed.

He’s always felt badly, not replacing that ring, but Chris had said in the right-after-time, “don’t, it was a joke anyway and I know you’re not a ring kind of guy.” It had hurt, though he’d known Chris had meant it as a kind of an out when Karl had been trying to keep things light and not be a possessive asshole and shit and yet still let Chris know he cared.

He hadn’t worn one with Nat—had a tattoo that he’d then had to have slowly taken off, and hadn’t that been a metaphor of a kind—and then not just Indy but Hunter’d freaked out after Chris left for the shoot, Hunter declaring on the way home from dropping Chris off at the airport, “I can’t believe you just let him leave, Dad, you’re a bloody asshole, don’t you like, love him and want to be with him forever and shit?” to which the answer was “Of course I do, what, you think that I don’t?” and he couldn’t even chide the boy for his language because he was right.

Hunter had glared at him from the rear view mirror and said “People who love people forever get _married._ Even if they do get divorced. But they get married first.”

So now he has two tungsten rings, highly polished—they won’t ever shine as bright as Chris’ eyes—that his boys helped him pick out on the way home from the airport because if it didn’t count in L.A. yet, it would count in New Zealand—though maybe some day. He’d had to explain about tungsten not cracking like opal might when he did something stupid and Chris punched a wall with his ring on, to which Indy had narrowed his eyes and said “Okay, sometimes you’re smart.”—and he opens his hands and says—“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Like Chris always says—he’s bad with the sweet talk.

Chris’ eyes’ glimmer a little, widen a bit, his mouth compresses because that’s what it does when he _isn’t_ going to cry, and then he goes for the ring that’s a little bit bigger and takes it to weigh in his palm.

“Trade you,” he says, his voice husky. If he’s not smiling when he puts the ring on Karl’s finger with a cold, shaky hand, and still isn’t smiling when Karl’s even more shaky hands do the same—and yes, Anne is whistling and hooting somewhere in the background, this is going to be all over TMZ and _People_ tomorrow, and hey, it’s not like Karl didn’t already email his publicist to warn her, well, something big might be popping up—well, Chris’ eyes are shining even more brightly than the sun that’s decided to peek out from the clouds that have hid it all day. That’s just fine with Karl.

“Okay if I stay until I have to get off to Spain?” he asks, as they turn and head down the path toward the car. Karl follows closely as Chris leads the way—he smells like mud and horse and wet chain mail, and the rain in his longish hair is stuck in silver-dew-droplets.

“You can stay as long as you want.” He stops for a moment, turns, laces their now ring-clad fingers together, and kisses Karl briefly, his mouth tasting of rain, Anne and _tired._ He smiles as he pulls away, disengaging their fingers, and their rings briefly clack. It feels right, as the sun catches the glint of Chris’ eyes and teeth and Karl’s momentarily blinded.

“Forever, then.”

Still blind, Karl follows him down. Chris knows the way.

 

 


End file.
